


With Careful Hands

by Laura JV (jacquez)



Series: The spear in your heart [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, Star Trek
Genre: Alternate Universe - Star Trek Fusion, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-20
Updated: 2018-10-20
Packaged: 2019-08-04 23:01:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16355945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jacquez/pseuds/Laura%20JV
Summary: John returns to London with his mind irretrievably ruined. Sherlock Holmes just wants someone to go halves on a flat.And then there's a double homicide.





	1. If there are self-made purgatories, we all have to live in them.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Basingstoke](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Basingstoke/gifts).



> Thank you, Basingstoke, for the idea and the beta. 
> 
> This story takes place about a year and a half after the destruction of Vulcan, in the Alternate timeline. 
> 
> **Notes on the Vulcan vocabulary in the story:** I decided to use Vulcan from a variety of sources, including Star Trek novels (as collected on Memory Beta), ZC Vulcan, and Modern Golic as constructed by the Vulcan Language Institute. 
> 
> **Notes on characters & characterization:** I have opted to blend certain aspects of the ACD canon and of the modern BBC Sherlock canon, in order to achieve versions of the characters and their situation that work in the context of the United Federation of Planets. The most relevant ACD stories are "A Study in Scarlet", "The Greek Interpreter", and "The Yellow Face".
> 
>  **Other notes:** Chapter titles are all quotes from Spock. Quotes from the Vulcan philosopher Surak are from the novel _Spock's World_ , by Diane Duane; not all of these are noted in the text. 
> 
> Notes on worldbuilding and gender/sexuality in this universe are available in Appendices A & B.

_"Harm no one's internal, invisible integrities. Leave others the privacies of their minds and lives. Intimacy remains precious only insofar as it is inviolate: invading it turns it to torment. Reach out to others courteously: accept their reaching in the same way, with careful hands." -- Surak_

 

 

John rose from meditation early, disturbed by memories. He had been unable to achieve a deep state, and his shields were barely adequate to his needs, but that had been true since the destruction of Vulcan.

 

He struck the table with his clenched fist before he could control the impulse. It cracked under the blow; Earth furnishings — especially those in basic housing — were not made to withstand Vulcan strength. He uncurled his hand and studied the green blood pooling under his skin, before quickly running a dermal regenerator over the injury. Appearing in public with a bruised hand would attract notice; at the very least, Stamford would comment upon it later, and that he most wished to avoid.

 

"I have been too long idle," he said, mostly to his still-aching hand, and went to dress for the day. He missed being onboard a starship, but Médecins Sans Frontières Interstellaire wouldn't take him back without certification from a Vulcan healer, and he could not rebuild his shields. The healer on New Vulcan had suggested applying for a new bondmate, to more quickly repair the damage from T'Mar's death, but he did not want a new bondmate.

 

Federation Medical London housed his only close acquaintances who were neither with MSFI, nor dead with Vulcan, Sarah Stamford and her husband Michael Murray. He met Stamford at a tea shop near FedMed, a place they had spent a great deal of time while in medical school together. The proprietor was an elderly Vulcan woman who grew her own leaves for theris, and John had visited the shop every day since he arrived at the London spaceport. He knew it was an emotional indulgence, this comforting of himself with non-replicated theris, served in a traditional blown-glass pot, but he was helpless before it, just as he was helpless before her daily greeting in his native tongue, the sound of home, his personal name rumbling and clicking in her mouth. Logically, it did nothing to heal the psychic wound of the death of Vulcan, but logic did not come easily, these days.

 

Stamford greeted him cheerily, and settled across from him with her own tea — Ceylon, if John was not mistaken. "End of term exams," Stamford said. "I can't do it, John, I really can't, I've got crying students in my office five days a week."

 

"And yet, you keep asking me to accept a faculty position alongside you," John said, sipping his theris. "You are intending to do so again, once you have completed your litany of complaints about emotionalism."

 

Stamford laughed. "You're bored stiff, these days, I can tell," she said, and John tensed. It was true enough, but he was also inclined to outbursts of rage, and his mental shields were far too damaged to hold in the face of a classroom. "And you always were just fine with emotionalism; it never bothered you like it did Terik and T'Min."

 

John set his cup down. It was true; he had been abnormally comfortable with emotion for one of his kind. It was why he had chosen the career he had. "Stamford — Sarah — I cannot. Please. I am not yet recovered enough." He stilled the trembling of his hands. "I find it difficult even to meet with you, and you know me well enough."

 

Stamford stopped smiling, and reached out. She did not touch John, but let her hand hover over his sleeve, just close enough that John could feel the warm, compassionate buzz of her mind through his fragile shields. "All right. I thought -- they're not -- I thought you'd be fine, I'm sorry. I'll stop asking. But — you were always social, John, and now you're alone all the time. I worry about you."

 

"It is likely that it would be — helpful to my mental state," John conceded. "Yet I am alone. What is to be done about that?"

 

"You could find a flatshare, or something," she said.

 

"It is not logical to choose to live with a telepath with damaged mental shields. Humans are frequently illogical, but I am certain there are few who would wish to live with me."

 

"You know I'd take you in a heartbeat, illogical or not," Stamford said. "Mike wouldn't mind, and we have an extra room, but --"

 

"You have children," John said. "I know." His shields would never hold; he would be fortunate not to suffer a complete breakdown if he were in close contact with children regularly.

 

Stamford frowned into her tea. "There's someone -- a chem lecturer at FedMed mentioned looking for a flatmate the other day. Bit of an odd duck, probably wouldn't mind a spot of telepathy. Come on in with me, and I'll introduce you."

 

*

 

"Lab 3," Stamford said, raising her eyebrows, her hand on the door lever. John raised one of his in answer; when they had been in medical school together, Stamford had constructed a still in this laboratory, and had provided real alcohol for the "parties" the human and Trill members of their cohort had insisted upon hosting. Occasionally, Stamford had dyed it blue and claimed it was Romulan ale, although the blue color had been all wrong, and the drunken chorus of "liar!" from her friends never seemed to daunt her.

 

The individual in the lab was tall, and very thin inside their coveralls, and had protective goggles covering their eyes. They appeared to be a man, but human gender expression was variable enough that John had learned never to assume. "Sarah!" they said, "have you come to complain about your students? Mine haven't cried on me once; I can't imagine what you're doing to yours."

 

"I'm extremely maternal, and yours are terrified of you," Stamford said. "This is Dr. John, an old colleague of mine."

 

"Sherlock Holmes," the human said, raising their hand in the ta'al, their eyes -- an extraordinary steel-gray in color -- flickering rapidly over John's body. "John, is it? Unusual name, for a Vulcan." As most humans did, they hit the J hard and softened the final sound.

 

"It is a use-name. Use-names are common for Vulcans who go among humans, as many Vulcan names are difficult for you to pronounce."

 

"And your real name?"

 

"My use-name is real," said John. "It is known to all who know me; it is not a false name."

 

Holmes smiled and pulled the goggles from their face, untangling them from their hair with a soft curse. "You have recently come back to London from New Vulcan, I perceive. A curious choice. You can't be fond of the climate."

 

"Stamford brought me here because she believed we might tolerate each other in a living situation," John replied.

 

"Ah! We might," said Holmes, and their smile altered to something that caused pleasant apprehension to skitter up John's spine. "Do you like the violin?"

 

"I do not object to it, played competently."

 

"Never fear! And I confine most of my other bad habits to my work," Holmes said, "so unless you have something to confess, shall we go and see the flat I've been complaining to Sarah that I can't quite afford by myself?"

 

John tilted his head, considering them. They seemed tolerable enough, if somewhat abrupt. "I must not be disturbed at meditation. I do not...react well to disturbances."

 

"Yes," they said. "I had deduced that from your hand." They gestured at the faint remaining bruises on John's hand, and he had to suppress the urge to hide it behind his back.

 

"Further," said John, for it was only logical that he inform them of the full set of facts, "my mental shields were damaged badly when my world died. Any strong emotion on your part would be enough to penetrate them, so there is a risk of mental contact."

 

Holmes shrugged. "I can live with that. I'm not overly emotional, as a rule. Do you have time now?"

 

John nodded, and Holmes went to remove their coveralls. Stamford let her shoulder brush John's carefully, bringing the warmth of her mind close again, like a balm. "Do you want me to come along?"

 

"No."

 

"I do think it will do you good, John."

 

"You are an excellent physician," John said, "and I shall follow your prescription." He touched his shoulder to Stamford's, the faintest pressure through the fabric of their clothing, and Stamford leaned in briefly, affection and care leaking softly into John's mind. Really, Stamford was eminently tolerable; perhaps Holmes would prove to be the same. At the very least, it would be a change from the greige of basic housing, from the tedium of surface meditation, from the aching gray chill of everything since the end of things.

 

*

 

The flat was the top two storeys of an older building, with a narrow, dark staircase for access. "This isn't wide enough for a hoverchair," John said, disapproving.

 

"There's a lift in the back garden," the landlady said. She was a sturdy woman in practical clothing, who had introduced herself as "Martha". Like many humans of her generation, she wore a pronoun tag around her neck, so John was confident she considered herself a woman. He was still uncertain about Holmes.

 

"Common in these old places," added Holmes. "Did you never leave basic housing when you were at FedMed?"

 

"No," replied John; he did not find Earth-style basic housing aesthetically pleasing, but it had been the most logical solution.. And then, there on the narrow stair, he was seized with the longing for home -- _basic housing climbed the cliff walls, and the children spilled out of their apartments, playing chanting games, running in the courtyard, calling out to each other. He and the other students at the Vulcan Science Academy had formed a cooking-group and crammed into the communal kitchen after classes; he'd been known for his plo'mik and kap. He felt the kap dough under his hands, yielding as he kneaded; ate a stickful of Sanak's vash g'ralth, spicy and fermented. Sanak's bondmate Valisk objected that her clan's vash was superior, for it contained shredded vegetables, not chopped. T'Hanta called out instructions for making sucrose syrup and brewing k'vass on the main worktop, and they all drank it together in the courtyard under the stars and the city lights. Sholtor pressed his fingers to John's, both of them intoxicated from strong k'vass; stroked John's wrist under cover of darkness. John slid his hand over Sholtor's, palm to back, listening to the catch of breath--_

 

He inhaled, smelled the air of London, the sharp scent of cleaning products, the absence of desert. His free hand was trembling and he clenched it at his side; unwrapped the fingers of his other hand from the banister and forced his feet to move.

 

The flat itself was an appealing combination of old and new -- the scarred woodwork original to the building, but the floors were modern insulated tile, and the windows were energy iso screens rather than glass. The furnishings were spare but well-constructed, framed with plastisteel rather than bioplastics, and recently upholstered. It spoke well to the maintenance of the building and the conscientiousness of Martha and her wife Marie, about whom she was chattering happily to Holmes. "Marie will adore you, I'm sure -- she does love to adopt people, I hope you won't mind? She's out just now, I'll bring you some biscuits when she gets back, she always does bring home biscuits. And she'll do a weekly clean of the common spaces, if you like, that's thirty credits, and I'll do your tea daily for ten credits a day plus the food credits, but there's both a replicator and cooking equipment in the kitchen, if you'd rather do your own."

 

"John?" Holmes said, and John answered, "I would prefer the cleaning, but not the tea, if that is acceptable," and saw Holmes nod in agreement. Even with the cleaning, the flat was only fifty credits above his housing allowance per week, once Holmes's portion was taken into account -- more than reasonable for a large, centrally-located accommodation in good repair. If it wasn't the communal spaces of home, it was at least not the isolated blandness of Earth's basic housing.

 

In only another few minutes, he and Holmes were signing a lease -- Holmes with their thumbprint, and John with the DNA-print required to access his extra credit allowance as a survivor of Vulcan's world-death. It was a tiny humiliation, each time, a reminder of a loss that he could not forget.

 

*

 

John had very little to move. Vulcans did not, as a rule, acquire personal effects. He owned three shirts, a heavy robe and a light robe, two pairs of trousers and two pairs of boots, a sleepshirt, a MSFI coffee mug, a firepot, a first-aid kit, and an _ahn woon_ , which he placed folded, quiet and deadly, at the back of a shelf. That night, he tried to meditate; as usual, he was unable to reach the deeper levels. From below, Holmes's footsteps echoed up the stairs, and then came the sound of a violin.

 

He did not recognize the tune, but he let it smooth out his breathing, let it sink him back into a shallow trance.

 

Holmes's violin became a feature of his days, for Holmes played daily, and well. "I take summer term for myself," Holmes said, when asked, and this seemed to involve roaming the city at will, entertaining a frequent and diverse set of visitors, and sprawling in the sitting-room, murmuring softly to themself. The second time a silver-haired, dark-eyed person with a ze-bracelet let zirself in and made tea, John introduced himself.

 

"Lestrade," ze said. "I'm with the police. I'm just questioning this one about a murder."

 

"You do always put me in the best light, Lestrade," said Holmes, who today had walked with John to the Vulcan tea shop, a distance of nearly ten kilometers. The passing minds of the largely-human crowds had brushed lightly over John's tattered shields, as everyone was intent on their own business, and Holmes had been silent and warm at his side. They had tried John's theris, and their face had crinkled at the taste of it.

 

Lestrade was the only visitor that came more than once, in that first month, and Holmes did not seem to make time for friends in the evenings. Instead, they preferred to stay home and play the violin, or walk to the park. One evening, Holmes invited him along; the two of them rambled side-by-side until late. The night was hot by the standards of London, and pleasantly cool by the standards of Vulcan; John was comfortable but Holmes opened the top of their shirt and rolled their sleeves, and sweat gathered in the hollow of their throat. They were very slender, which with their height gave a somewhat spidery impression to their body, but their forearms and chest were muscular. The moon gleamed off their skin, and John was fascinated by the silvery color; there had been no light like this on Vulcan, to shine so from pale flesh.

 

The back of Holmes's hand brushed John's, just enough to sense _thoughtfulness_ , _enjoyment_ , _hunger_. John drew away and clasped his hands behind his back, and suggested they find something to eat. Holmes laughed, and steered them to a restaurant where the owner seemed to know him.

 

That night, in the quiet of his room, John thought not of the _ahn woon_ sliding through his hands, but of Holmes's mind: the sharp edges of it, the clarity he'd been able to sense in their brief contact, the closeness of it, when all other minds were far away.

 

*

 

He met Stamford at the tea shop, and Stamford, with unlooked-for sensitivity, spoke only of the new equipment acquired for the surgical students, the renovations to the elderly administration building, her marathon training, her husband's ongoing quest to bring rugby to interstellar competition. "You could be his poster boy," she said, "you were very good, and I think a Vulcan in rugby shorts would make people take a second look."

 

"Would it?" replied John. "I always taped my ears; how would anyone tell?" He had found it a most fascinating game. His shields had been strong in those days, and he had relished the physicality of rugby: pressing in on the scrum, bodies warm against his side; the impact of a tackle and the thump of the ball on the ground as he placed it; the muscular surge of lifting a teammate high into the air.

 

"Oh, I've got plenty of pictures without your ears taped. People never believe Mike when he tells them he used to play rugby with a Vulcan, you know, so I keep them on my comm to show you off. Are you going to eat that?"

 

John pushed his bowl towards Stamford and steepled his fingers, watching as Stamford devoured his untouched spinach-and-egg soup. "Surely you can see the difficulty inherent in mixed-species competition, for such a sport," he said. "I avoided using my full strength, but one could hardly expect a team of Klingons to be so respectful."

 

Stamford laughed. "I'll tell Mike to beware of Klingons."

 

*

 

John shuddered his way out of meditation, shaking his head to clear it of the memories. _His mother, her hands ghosting over the psi-points on his face, whispering softly that he must accept what is. "Kaiidth," she murmured, in her soft voice, her mental presence warm against his. "We feel strongly, you and I. It can lead us astray, or we can understand its utility, let it guide us to understanding. Surak says, the spear in the Other's heart is the spear in your own. If you feel the spear, you can find it in another; you can say, I feel this to help you, to take your pain into myself, to heal your wounds—_

 

His hand throbbed and his knuckles were bleeding; he must have struck something, and he stumbled as he tried to stand. Pain spiked through his head and hand as he caught himself on his bedside table, and then came a light, quick knock on his door.

 

He looked at the chrono; 2300 hours. Holmes was usually playing the violin at this hour; John must have made enough noise to disturb them. He righted himself and answered the door.

 

"Holmes."

 

"John," Holmes said. They said nothing for a moment, and then, "I see you've injured your hand. Do you -- would you let me help?" Their face was neutral and open, and that more than anything else had John standing aside to let them in. Holmes took the first-aid kit from the shelf and removed the dermal regenerator, and reached for John's hand.

 

"No."

 

Holmes drew back slightly, and nodded. "I won't touch you." John placed his hand on the desk, as open as he could, and Holmes bent to their task, a frown of concentration on their face. They said, slowly, "You served on a deep-space medical assistance ship."

 

Stamford must have told them. "...Yes. First the _Asclepius,_ and then the _Rab_ \-- the _Shrehrab th'Ashraanat._ "

 

"Your ship...responded to Vulcan."

 

"Yes." John flexed his injured hand.

 

"How often do you think about dying?" They looked up, their face set, their eyes sharp.

 

John raised his eyebrow, but answered, obscurely relieved that someone had noticed. "Every day."

 

Holmes nodded, and turned the regenerator off, packed it carefully back into the kit. "And of killing yourself?"

 

John set his jaw, and said, "Killing one's self is illogical. To notice one's own death increases entropy."

 

"And yet," said Holmes, "you are thinking of it, and frequently, if I'm not mistaken." They placed the kit back on the shelf, and took the _ahn woon_ down, studying it."Will you give me -- whatever this is," they said, turning, the _ahn woon_ in their hands, "to keep safe?"

 

"No," John said, and Holmes laid it back on the shelf.

 

The silence lay between them, heavy, until Holmes said, gently, "Wake me anytime, John," and left.

 

After a few minutes, John heard the violin, piercingly sweet and melancholy. He stretched out on his bed, and listened as hard as he could, wishing the ache in his head could be cured with a dermal regenerator. "Learn to know what is from what you wish to be," he reminded himself, but the familiar words did not help.

 

*

 

Holmes asked John to join them for their evening walk the next night, and the next, and the next. "Do you practice any martial arts?" they asked, and "In an emergency situation, would you eat meat?", and "I've searched your use-name, and so far I've determined that it doesn't align with any known Vulcan given name."

 

John said, "Yes", and "Define 'emergency'", and "I see," the last of which caused Holmes to stop and look at him, an unexpectedly serious expression on their face.

 

"I will find out," they said. "I'm very determined, Szh'jn," which was by far the closest any human had ever come to the correct pronunciation of _S'chn_.

 

"Well done," John said, "but as everyone else will continue to call me 'John', I hardly see that it matters."

 

"I like to do things well," Holmes said, and they frowned, taking hold of a railing in both hands and forward leaning over it, looking down at the water. "If your use-name isn't based on your given name, what is it based on? Or did you just pick it out of a hat?"

 

John suppressed a flash of rage. The questioning would not have bothered him before the world-death, but now it was an irritant, like sand in the eyes; once, there had been a million of his clanspeople, and now there were not. "I might as well ask after your name," he said, rather than answer the question, "for when I was a student at Federation Medical, there were three Michaels and four Sarahs among the students, and we called them all by their surnames. I have never heard of a human named _Sherlock_ until I met _you_." He was nearly tempted to tell Holmes his personal name, in order to see their reaction, but the satisfaction would be momentary at best.

 

"You ought to hear my brother's name," Holmes said, and grinned. "One starts off thinking his is ordinary and then has expectations defied; it's beautifully done and I'm proud of my parents." They turned to put their back to the railing, and slowly, deliberately, telegraphing their movement so that John could avoid them if he wished, Holmes leaned their shoulder against John's, only the fabric of their shirt and John's robe separating them. 

 

John's shields were not strong enough to keep them out; he ought to have moved away, but he was curious what Holmes was intending to convey, if anything, or if it would be the unfocused sensation of an accidental mental touch. Holmes was aware of the state of his shields, but it was unlikely they understood Vulcan telepathy in detail.

 

There was nothing unfocused about it; Holmes clearly intended this to be read, or had at the very least prepared for the possibility: _Humor. Concern. Companionship._

 

Holmes withdrew, as gently as they had leaned in, and said "Hungry?"

 

John followed them out of the park.

 

*


	2. You find it easier to understand the death of one than the death of a million.

One morning, just after the start of fall term, Holmes stood by the window, playing music John did not recognize. Their eyes were closed, and they appeared very young, their long white hands very fragile on their instrument. John ate a piece of cheese slowly, not wanting to leave for the tea shop until the music was over. He had been living with Holmes for just over eight weeks, and the weather was beginning to cool; Holmes's days had altered to accommodate their teaching schedule, and in the past week they had spent less time together than was usual. John found that he missed the companionship, and judging by Holmes's warm greetings the past few evenings, they did as well.

 

"Sherlock?" came Martha's voice, up the stairs, "A Tobias Gregson's coming up the lift, dear."

 

Holmes put down their violin and dropped the screen at the window. Tobias Gregson turned out to be a tall, dark-skinned person wearing a he-bracelet and an exoskeletal unit. Holmes said "Fire your physical therapist, Gregson; that's not adjusted properly."

 

"I just haven't figured out stairs in it yet," Gregson answered; he sounded irritated.

 

"John," said Holmes, "take a look, will you?" They said it as if a shocking breach of medical etiquette were nothing at all, and John raised his eyebrows.

 

"I am a _pediatric surgeon_ ," he said, rather than address the ethical issues -- he was certain Holmes was not even aware of them --but Gregson sighed.

 

"You might as well," he said. "They won't leave me alone about it otherwise."

 

At the same time, Holmes said "You're a pediatrician?"

 

John ignored them and went to examine the exo unit. On missions, he'd had to do a wide range of tasks; adjusting an exo unit was simple enough if one could decipher their often-difficult interfaces. "Can you jump?"

 

Gregson made a tiny hop, and wobbled badly on the landing. John steadied him, and felt the whine of the servos under his hands. "I've only had it three days. My first rig, it took me two weeks to learn to do stairs," Gregson said.

 

"You already know how to do stairs," John said. "That skill will have transferred. Holmes is correct -- they should not have let you leave the office with the unit in this state. May I?"

Gregson nodded and John knelt to access the control panel. "The compensatory balance is set for an individual with mid-thigh amputation and a high spinal injury," he said. "That is why you are unable to land from a jump or to use stairs. Do you know the exact location of your spinal injury?"

 

"L-2," said Gregson, frowning.

 

"Here," John said. "May I show you the control panel on this model? You can adjust it yourself in the future; your physical therapist ought to have shown you how."

 

"Well, apparently I'm going to be firing my physical therapist," Gregson said, and he adjusted the settings as John showed him, carefully.

 

John sat back on his heels. "Jump again, please."

 

This time, Gregson landed lightly, without loss of balance, and made a satisfied noise.

 

"You should be able to use stairs now," John said. "Adjust the balance again if you need to."

 

Gregson hopped again, looking pleased. "Much better! Sherlock, how the deuce could you tell, just from seeing me walk?"

 

"Tension in your core muscles," said Holmes. "Well, now that's settled. What have you got for me?"

 

"Two homicides," Gregson said. "Definitely related, and it's going to be a diplomatic nightmare. I need someone who thinks sideways on this one." He held out a padd, and when Holmes reached for it, pulled it back. " _Don't_ put this on the comm network," he said. "Stay off comms entirely unless your damned brother can get you a secure one, in fact."

 

Holmes rolled their eyes and snatched the padd. "Yes, yes, very well."They scrolled through something rapidly, a smile spreading across their face.

 

"Can John come?" they asked.

 

*

 

The first individual had been found early in the morning, in a disused basic housing unit. The scene had not been cleared when the call for the second individual had come in, explained Gregson, and he'd ordered both scenes placed in stasis fields and gone to Baker Street.

 

Holmes knelt by the corpse -- an Andorian, dressed in a soft gray robe -- and carefully touched one swollen antennae with a gloved hand. "Has anyone had a medical tricorder in?" they asked. "I believe a toxicology screen will find they've been given a massive dose of teptaline, overloading their sensory apparatus -- John, do take a look."

 

"I am a _pediatric surgeon_ ," John said, for the second time that morning, but he pulled on a pair of gloves and joined Holmes at the body. The antennae were abnormally swollen, with broken blood vessels visible through the dermis. Judging by the bruising, the individual had died very shortly after the injury. "This would have been extremely painful," he said, "perhaps fatally painful; it could easily cause heart arrhythmia. Even if it did not kill directly, this is severe and permanent damage. A teptaline overdose could cause these injuries. It would have to be administered by intramuscular injection, and I see no obvious injection wounds." He touched the back, neck, and abdomen of the corpse, feeling for secondary and tertiary sex characteristics. "This is probably a thaan individual, although I would have to examine the genitalia to be certain."

 

" _Why_ are you a pediatrician?" Holmes said, rather than responding to John's analysis.

 

"Pediatric surgeon."

 

"And did you choose the use-name 'John' to appear friendlier to children? Although I can't imagine Vulcan children care very much about that."

 

"All children care very much about a great many things that appear trivial to adults," John said. "And yes, my use-name was chosen, in part, to seem friendly to human children. It is a familiar name." Vulcan children had always called him by his personal name; he could feel the grip of their panicked, torn minds on his, as he repeated his identity to them, knowing they could feel the world-death in his mind--

 

Holmes bent down to look closely at the corpse again, and bumped against John's shoulder. Their mind broke through John's shields, and John flinched away so violently that he struck his side against the wall. His feet slipped out from under him, nearly kicking the corpse. "John! Are you all right?"

 

John closed his eyes and fought for control, opening his clenched fingers one at a time. "Yes."He refused to shudder. He drew the shreds of his dignity around him and tried to let his pain go to the winds.

 

"All right," Holmes said, and backed away, allowing John to stand. "Thaan, you said?"

 

*

 

On the way to the second crime scene, Holmes said "Do you want to talk about it?"

 

John steepled his hands in front of his chest. "My history is not relevant to the matter at hand."

 

Holmes bit their lip, and lowered their voice. "I'm curious about you, John, that's all. You needn't tell me anything you don't want to."

 

"I am not particularly interesting," John said, and Holmes leaned towards him, their peculiar light eyes suddenly intent, one hand on the seat between their thigh and John's.

 

"You're a doctor, not a Vulcan healer, and you trained as a pediatrician, but when I invited you to a murder scene you jumped at the chance. You were on a medical assistance vessel -- you treated children in disaster zones, in war zones. You're friends with Sarah Stamford -- not just acquaintances, you actually like her whether you'll admit that or not -- so you were sociable when you were at FedMed. But I've lived with you all summer and you don't talk to anyone but me and her. You don't comm anyone, certainly not anyone offworld, so you're not in contact with anyone Vulcan, any friends, any professional contacts. I hear you pacing at night, every night, and so I ask myself: what might I tell about a man who was previously sociable, and is now isolated, a man who chose an unusual career, a man who is--"

 

"Stop," John said, and Holmes stopped.

 

John could not open his eyes. His fingers curled in on themselves again, and his nails sliced into his skin. He forced himself to breathe deeply.

 

How did Holmes know? Stamford would not have told them, and the mental contact they'd shared had not been extensive enough to transfer more than vague impressions.

 

After a moment, Holmes said, softly, "You're a very interesting man, John."

 

"I am not a man," John answered.

 

*

 

The second crime scene was eerily like the first, except that this gray-robed Andorian had lost an antenna, and the stump had oozed lymph and blood over their face before they died. Lestrade came out to greet Holmes, and raised zir eyebrows when Holmes requested that John be allowed to examine the corpse. Ze said "You're a doctor? Huh," but did not object.

 

"Holmes," John said, "this is a chan individual, and I do not think he was poisoned by teptaline, or not only by teptaline. Teptaline would not have caused him to ignore damage to his antenna like this. He would have tried to call emergency services, and to stop the bleeding. That he did not means he was disoriented, or unconscious."

 

Holmes examined the corpse's intact antenna, mottled with bruises. "He took longer to die," they said. "The bruising is more extensive, and that stump must have bled for -- an hour, John, do you think? Lestrade, have you found the antenna?"

 

"No," said Lestrade. "We've got a forensic scanner looking for a DNA clump, but nothing so far."

 

Holmes touched the stump, their face intent. "This has been cut off with a metal tool," they said, "something that leaves ragged marks. Not clippers, nor scissors, certainly not a knife." He turned it, slightly. "See where the pressure was applied, and the angles in the cut? You might almost think it'd been torn off, but this was something curved, irregularly toothed, and he was conscious at the time, struggling."

 

"An ushaan-tor has a blade like that," said John. "It's an Andorian dueling blade."

 

"Huh," said Lestrade. "Why do you know about Andorian dueling blades-- you know what, I don't want to know, all of Sherlock's friends are bizarre."

 

"All my friends are _useful_ ," Holmes said, "but John, you really do exceed expectations." They touched their shoulder to John's, _excitement_ , and then they flushed and moved away slightly, as if they hadn't intended the mental touch. "Any rate. Perhaps he knew the other victim, and wanted to avenge him; perhaps he was merely trying to survive. We'll know more when the necropsy is complete."

 

"Speaking of," said a high, light voice behind them, and Holmes leapt to their feet.

 

"Molly! It took you long enough."

 

"I got to the first scene just after you'd left, Sherlock."They had a medical tricorder around their neck and a nervous smile. "Anyway, I'm here now, so -- let me do my job, will you?"

 

"This is John," Holmes said, "my friend, John -- John, this is Dr. Molly Hooper, she's the medical examiner on duty."

 

"Live long and prosper, Dr. Hooper," John said.

 

Dr. Hooper blinked, and her nervous smile dropped off her face. "Okay," she said, "hi?" She ducked her head, and flicked the tricorder on.

 

"Why haven't _you_ got a medical tricorder?" Holmes asked John, while Dr. Hooper worked. He moved around the room, examining every inch of it minutely; John followed, interested.

 

"I don't have any personal property, except my clothing and a few mementos," John said. "Most Vulcans don't." He thought of the _ahn woon_ , slick leather in his hands, the faint pressure of it on the skin of his neck.

 

"I'm requisitioning a medical tricorder," Holmes said, frowning. "If you're going to be with me at crime scenes, I want you to have one."

 

Dr. Hooper cleared her throat, and they stopped talking to look at her. "You were right about the teptaline, Sherlock," she said. "They've also both taken, or been given, something that's not in my database, so I've sent that off to FedMed, and I've identified them, based on DNA fingerprints." She coughed and continued, "Shehejharah ch'Rhiathest, and Ashrebavesh th'Sahlethon." She stumbled over the names, and held out the padd to Holmes, who ignored it. John took it, instead.

 

"Andorians, like Vulcans, have use-names," he said. "They would have been called Jharah and Bav, most likely." He scrolled until he spotted the chemical analysis of the psychoactive. "This is probably saf," he said. "Someone would have had to smuggle it; it's an Andorian psychoactive, highly restricted. There's an active black market -- some people use it recreationally, but Andorians use it ceremonially." _Shelev clutching his face, Shelev yelling "don't you die on me, don't you dare", Shelev pressing a smear of saf into his mouth with one long finger, Shelev holding him while he shook and shook and shook, "John, don't, come on, stay with me, John."_ He blinked and came back to the present, where Dr. Hooper and Holmes were eyeing him -- Dr. Hooper as if offended by his appropriation of the padd, and Holmes with sharp interest. He cleared his throat and passed the padd over to Holmes. "It has some medical uses, but they are uncommon. It is also quite toxic to most humanoid species."

 

"Okay," Dr. Hooper said. "They were half of a bondgroup. I sent the ID to Lestrade and zir team is going 'round to their flat; supposedly they have a daughter living with them, and she's ten. She's probably frantic with worry by now, poor thing."

 

"She won't be there," Holmes said. "John, look at the family information." They handed the padd back.

 

"Five children?" John set it down on the table, disbelieving. "A bondgroup with five children? The _Rab_ was mostly Andorian-crewed; no one had families that size." If a bondgroup managed three children during their brief fertile window, it was worthy of celebration, and single children were far more likely. "They must have been both dedicated and fortunate."

 

"Yes," said Holmes, but something about their tone made John straighten his back. "Let's go home, John; there's nothing more we can do here."

 

*

 

Back at home, John cut fruit, arranged it in perfect order on skewers to maximize complementary flavors, and seasoned it with crushed hot pepper and vinegar. This morning's cheese seemed a distant memory. Holmes made tea for both of them and toast for themself, and sat nibbling idly at their crusts and watching John.

 

"You said the bondgroup was dedicated and fortunate," they said, after a time. "Why?"

 

"You know of the population crisis on Andor?" Holmes nodded. "Having children is -- a service to the clan. Many consider it a sacred thing. Five children would be very difficult on the body of the zhen member of the bondgroup."

 

Holmes's eyes narrowed. "I _see._ Did you notice the sex of their missing daughter?"

 

"No. Zhen?"

 

"Yes." Holmes frowned into their tea. "They were not dedicated _enough_ ," they said, "not for someone."

 

"I do not understand," John said, putting an apple chunk and a grape together into his mouth.

 

"She's their _only_ zhen child, in fact. A bondgroup that sent their _only zhen child_ offworld, just before puberty, John? They're protecting her." They closed their eyes and rubbed them, looking worried. "Someone killed them to get to their daughter. Reason it backwards, tell me if you agree."

 

John traced the connections in his mind; there was no flaw in the logic, given the information at hand. "Logical," he said. "The question then arises: do the murderers have her, or has she escaped?"

 

"And if she's escaped, where is she? Yes." He shook his head. "There are enough Andorians on Earth — even enough in London — that orbital lifesign scans won't be any help. It'll have to be old-fashioned legwork." Their comm chirped at them, and they answered it immediately. "Gregson! I thought you said no comms."

 

"I just want you to join me at the Andorian Embassy. Bring your Vulcan friend, if you want; he can explain the medical side."

 

"John?" Holmes asked, raising one hand in offer.

 

John had planned to spend the afternoon in meditation, but — "Yes," he said, and hastily consumed the rest of his fruit.

 

*

 

Gregson met them in the secure zone. "Lestrade said to tell you you were right," he said. "The daughter is missing. She's a day student at the London Science Academy's Lower School, but two days ago her fathers came to get her early, and no one's seen her since."

 

"They knew something was wrong," Holmes said.

 

"That's my guess," Gregson agreed. "The headmistress is coming into the station later, says she can tell us what the fathers told her. Anyway, we've put out an alert for the girl. You got authorization from your brother?"

 

Holmes nodded, and John wondered what authorization they'd sought, and why. "He was very obliging. He doesn't want a diplomatic incident anymore than you do." They hesitated. "John, if you would be so kind as to -- please don't mention my speculation, at home?"

 

"Do you suspect the ambassador of sympathies with those who would harm others to accomplish their goals?"

"Not everyone is as logical as you or I, John," said Holmes, and pressed the door buzzer.

 

A staffer answered the door, a young Andorian, barely into adulthood. "Captain Tobias Gregson, London Metropolitan Police," Gregson said, "and Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John, Federation Security. We're investigating the death of two Andorian citizens, and the disappearance of their daughter. We wished to inform Ambassador Shirapeshi zh'Pyveh."

 

John raised his eyebrows at _Federation Security,_ and felt Holmes tap his foot sharply with the side of their toes. "Later," Holmes murmured, the words barely audible, clearly pitched to Vulcan hearing.

 

The staffer ushered them into a receiving room, and left to fetch the ambassador, who arrived almost at once. "I am Pesh," she said, "and you bring me news? Two of my kind were found dead, their child missing? And my staff tells me you are police, and Federation? So it must be true, yes? Tell me." She had the typical soft, sibilant, eyes-lowered speech of Andorians, but her antennae were forward and quivering with attention.

 

"It is true," Gregson said. "One chan and one thaan individual, members of the same bondgroup, both of them genetics researchers with the conglomerate Interstellar GenTech. Their names were Shehejharah ch'Rhiathest, and Ashrebavesh th'Sahlethon. Their daughter Siahasazo zh'Shythen is missing."He pronounced the names slowly, but well; John supposed he had practiced with a language app on the way over.

 

"How did they die?" There was a peculiar undertone in Pesh's voice, but John could not place it; he had never heard such a tone from any of his crewmates aboard the _Rab_.

 

"They were murdered," put in Holmes, with a tight smile. "Poisoned with teptaline." When Pesh turned her attention to them, they said, "Sherlock Holmes, Federation Security, and this is my colleague, Dr. John, who examined the bodies."

 

John tilted his head and gave Pesh a considering look. Holmes was deliberately disguising the presence of saf in the bodies; it was logical to assume they had a reason to do so. He was reminded of the protocols used when speaking to children in front of their abusers. "The teptaline caused hemorrhaging in their antennae and related neurological structures," he said, and decided on a careful lie. "Mr. ch'Rhiathest appears to have torn his own antenna off, attempting to stop the pain." It was a mistake any doctor unfamiliar with Andorian dueling might make.

 

He almost missed it -- a tiny, satisfied flare of Pesh's eyelashes. If he had not spent a year on the _Rab_ , learning the details of Andorian body language _,_ he would not have known to look for it. He kept his face still.

 

"We must contact the rest of the bondgroup," Pesh said. "I have subspace here, in my office. You can use it, please." John's hand twitched; there was a harmonic of insistence in that one, an unpleasantly-toned one that grated on both his ears and his damaged mental shields.

 

John dropped behind Gregson as they all followed Pesh down the hallway, and caught Holmes's eye. "Later," Holmes mouthed, and brushed their fingers against John's arm: _patience_.

 

They sat in a semicircle around a table, and a fine-featured Andorian with cropped hair appeared on the screen."Sorao speaking," she said.

 

The ambassador spoke softly, her antennae firmly forward. "Othesorao zh'Shythen?"

 

"Yes?"

 

"This is Ambassador Shirapeshi zh'Pyveh. With me are members of the London Metropolitan Police, and Federation Security, yes? We must speak with you, and with your sh'za."

 

Sorao frowned. "Are Bav and Jharah — no, wait! Thas, Thas, come here." Thas had stronger features than Sorao, and long hair worn loose around her shoulders, and she clasped Sorao's hand in hers. "Yes. Now what?"

 

Pesh cleared her throat. "We regret to inform you of the deaths of your bondmates, and that your zhei is missing. These people have -- "

 

On the screen, Sorao drew back, her face lavender-pale. "No," she said, "no, no --" and she fled. Thas started up out of her seat, and then stopped.

 

"I must know," she said. "Sorao will want me to know." She sat back down, and covered her face with a shaking hand. "What happened? You will tell me, yes? Everything you know, please?"

 

"Your bondmates were murdered," Pesh said, "and we do not know what has happened to your zhei. It would help the investigation, if you would speak to these people, for they have already discovered much." Thas nodded.

 

Holmes stepped forward. "I am sorry for your loss," they said, as they took the seat next to Pesh.

 

"We know that your bondmates were poisoned, and that they took your zhei out of school two days ago. That suggests they thought something was wrong, that something was going to happen before it did." He paused, then said gently, "Can you think of why anyone would wish to harm your bondmates, or your zhei?" 

 

Thas twitched her antennae forward and looked down. Her eyelids were a soft violet, and her long white hair fell down, obscuring her face. "No," she said. "Jharah and Bav were honorable in all things, and who would have a reason to harm a child?" She took a deep breath. "You will find Asazo, yes? You will not let her vanish and never be seen again?"

 

"We will do our very best, Thas," Holmes said.

 

*

 

Thas had had nothing much to offer the investigation: no, her bondmates had no enemies at work that she knew of; yes, Asazo was happy at school, and an adventurous child; the opportunity to travel offworld with her fathers had been too good to pass up, and they'd all wanted her to have the experience.

 

Holmes and John took their leave of Gregson and Pesh. Gregson was staying to get a full statement and to arrange investigative access, but Holmes seemed to feel their role, and John's, was over. They followed John into the cab, and before John could ask for the flat, said "The Diogenes Club."

 

"The Diogenes Club?"

 

"My brother's club," they said. "I was not absolutely truthful with Gregson, earlier, but don't worry." They tapped something into their handheld, biting their lip.

 

The cab pulled up in front of a tall, faded-green door, with a scuffed and oxidized copper name-plate next to it. Holmes pressed their thumb to the entry scanner, and said "John, don't speak once inside, not until I do. And then, you must tell me everything, because there is a man there who I want to hear everything you know. "

 

John followed them through the door and down a long hallway, until they came to a door labeled "Stranger's Room," and there Holmes knocked thrice. The door was answered by an extremely tall, heavyset person with a male-pattern bracelet on his wrist. He raised his eyebrows, and stood aside to let them into the room. Once the door closed, Holmes smiled at him warmly. "Mycroft."

 

"Sherlock," the man said, and stood looking at Holmes with his eyes narrowed.

 

Holmes fidgeted slightly. "John, this is my brother Mycroft. Mycroft, John." Mycroft nodded politely at John, and then returned his gimlet stare to his sibling, who looked increasingly discomfited. Holmes was tall, but their brother was at least ten centimeters taller, and much larger overall. They had the same sharp gray eyes and dark hair, the same sharp-bladed nose, the same pale long-fingered hands, but there the resemblances ended. Mycroft Holmes had a full, red-lipped mouth and a broad jaw and forehead; his shoulders were likewise broad, and there was a softness to his body, as if he did not care to use it hard.

 

Holmes was silent a moment, and then said "You would have given me authorization, if I'd asked."

 

Mycroft took two identification badges out of his jacket pocket and handed them to Holmes, with a wry expression on his face. "I'm giving it to you anyway, Sherlock. Once the girl vanished, it landed on my desk; I know perfectly well who is best placed to find her in this situation." He sighed. "You do like to make it hard for me, you know." He gestured for them to follow him, and led them across the room to a nook in one wall. The room was arranged comfortably, John thought, in the human way -- padded chairs, tables of real wood, a tea service and a tray of small, triangular sandwiches set out on the sideboard.

 

"I'm making it easy," Holmes protested, at Mycroft's heels.

 

"You're really not," replied Mycroft. "You're fortunate that I've cultivated the favor of every receptionist I've ever met; the identification check called in by the Andorian embassy was routed directly to me as soon as they mentioned your name." He sat down in an armchair almost massive enough to make him look proportional to it. "I've had a secure link installed for you at Baker Street."

 

"Thank you," Holmes said. "There were -- John! Did you hear any vocalizations I couldn't, at the embassy? Your hearing is much sharper than mine, and you've worked with Andorians before."

 

Mycroft's pale eyes snapped to John's face, as sharp and intent as his sibling's. "Twice," John said. "One of insistence -- but not _polite_ insistence, when Pesh told us to use the Embassy subspace transmitter. It was an insistence of hostile command, and it had a telepathic component. She also used one I didn't recognize, when she asked how the victims died."

 

"Why did you lie to her?" Mycroft said, and John drew back. Mycroft waved his hand. "It's obvious that you did; Sherlock wouldn't be bursting with excitement if you hadn't."

 

John nodded. "They concealed information from Pesh. I understood from that that they did not trust her, and wished her to think we were more ignorant than we were. It is simple enough to make a member of a species you know well think you are entirely ignorant of their kind."

 

"He called one of the victims 'Mr. ch'Rhiathest,'" Holmes said, and Mycroft laughed.

 

"Well played, indeed, John."

 

"What else?" Holmes said, their eyes bright with excitement.

 

"Her Standard is not as good as I would expect for an Ambassador stationed on Earth."

 

Holmes nodded in agreement. "There are grammatical remnants in her speech which suggest she learned the language no more than five or six years ago. What else, John?"

 

"She is zhen, and young for her post; at her age I would expect her to be closer to the beginning of her career. She was perhaps unable to have more than one child."

 

"The ambassador," Mycroft said, quietly, "has a single child. A chan, five years older than the missing zhen, and genetically compatible with her."

 

"I could kiss you both," said Holmes, clapping their hands. "You see, Mycroft, why I brought him along."

 

"Ridiculous," Mycroft said, and winked at John, for what reason John could not possibly discern. "Anything else that I ought to know?" He and Holmes both turned their sharp eyes on John, and he considered carefully.

 

"Both victims were dosed with saf," he said. "It must be difficult to get, here. It's only manufactured on Andor; most of the offworld supply is black market via the Orion Syndicate."

 

"The Syndicate has relatively little penetration on Earth," Mycroft said.

 

John nodded. "Hospitals might have small amounts, because it is a last-resort treatment for telepaths dying of psychic shock. The most likely _individuals_ to possess it are Andorians who have acquired it for ritual purposes." He hesitated, then added, "The most common ritual use is for the _shelthreth_. It is -- marriage, but also sexual congress."

 

"Honestly," said Holmes, "if I'd known it'd be anything like this, I would have asked for a Vulcan flatmate for Christmas, ages ago."

 

"You're an atheist," Mycroft said, and Holmes waved this off. Mycroft looked at his chrono. "You'd best go, if you intend to meet your informants before dark," he said, and Holmes grabbed John's wrist and tugged him to his feet. Their mind breached John's shields for the second time that day, but this time it shredded them, and John felt his mind reach for Holmes's, seeking a meld. The pattern of Holmes's thoughts was like a vast set of interconnected rooms -- clearly Holmes's visualization of their ( _his_ ) own mind -- logic-cool and emotion-hot. Doorways snapped open, and then an unmistakeable swell of _affection_ swamped him -- of _connection_ \-- Holmes's hand in his --

 

John jerked away, and fell against Mycroft. The mind within his changed, became cooler, became a silvery web of immense complexity, and then withdrew as Mycroft set him on his feet. Holmes was splayed on the floor two meters away, trembling. "Do not--" John managed, and Holmes held up a staying hand.

 

"Don't touch you. I won't." They -- _he,_ said the fading mental contact -- looked past John's shoulder, at his brother, and said "We should go."

 


	3. Pain is a thing of the mind. The mind can be controlled.

 

Holmes stayed scrupulously to his side of the cab, his hands knotted together in his lap. When they got home, he left John at the door to the flat. "I'm off to find the Sallys. I'll be back before dark." He looked tense and unhappy.

 

"What are the Sallys?"

 

Holmes laughed, a little hollowly, and jogged off. John watched him go, and there was a peculiar tug in his mind, as if Holmes was still connected to him. That thought worried him; a spontaneous bond could be dangerous for both of them. He decided to go for his evening walk, and to test his shields when he came back.

 

When he returned, it was nearly dark, and Holmes was still out. John went to his room, lit his firepot, and knelt on the floor in the lesh'riq. He settled his weight over his feet and began a child's meditation, a mind-shielding exercise he had learned when he was old enough to understand himself as separate from his mother. He breathed into it, and began to lay out the events of the day, to place them in their proper context. The dead chan and thaan, who almost certainly died trying to save their child; the missing child, alone on an alien world; Mycroft's cool gray eyes; the intensity of Holmes's mind within his. He set all aside but the last, and turned his attention to his bond-center: yes, there was a shadow there, the soft ghost of one of Holmes's mind-rooms. They must take care not to touch again, until the link attenuated sufficiently. He drifted in a light state, trying to rest and let his shields recover, for some time; and then he heard Holmes calling his name.

 

"John? John." There was a knock as his door. "John, Gregson interviewed the headmistress, and I'm going to contact Thas on the secure terminal. Join me?"

 

John dropped his hands to the floor and pressed himself to his feet; his knees were cramped from holding the lesh'riq for so long. He checked the chronometer: it was past midnight. "Yes," he answered, "I will be there in a moment."

 

Holmes was already speaking to Thas by the time John made it downstairs. He could hear the subharmonics -- _open, grieving_ \-- before he reached the sitting room. "Our bondgroup — you know of the population crisis, yes? Our zh'yi has borne five children. This is extraordinary, do you see? Our zh'yi' is strong, her body is strong, and that is so rare. Asazo is our only zhei, and her gene scans showed a — a long fertility window, like her zhavey." Thas paused, and looked over Holmes's shoulder at John. "Oh, you are here! Holmes tells me you are a pediatrician, yes, John?"

 

John came to stand behind Holmes, leaving a careful space between them. "Pediatric surgeon."

 

Thas flicked her antennae at him and continued, "So you will understand. They wished to bond her young, to some who were older, so that she could begin childbearing by age fourteen. Fourteen! We — we did not want that for her. She went with her charan and thavan to Earth, to get an education, you see? Where she would be unbothered for some time. There are many who disagreed with our decision. Perhaps — perhaps someone wished to take her, and bond her." She made an angry noise, which developed into a fury-tone with a shimmering subharmonic of _duty_. "She is not old enough!"

 

John leaned in, suddenly, reminded by the strength of her tones. "Thas. Tell me. This undertone--" he hummed the one he didn't know, the one Pesh had used "--what does it mean?" Holmes could not hear it, of course, and looked at him curiously.

 

Thas flinched. "That is -- not a pleasant one. Probing? Hidden things? I cannot tell, from your accent, I am sorry. But it is not -- hm. Not honest? But if one were lying, one would trouble to hide it, yes?"

 

"The individual who used it is likely unaware that I could hear it," John said. "Humans cannot."

 

Holmes nodded confirmation, and added, "Thas, I...encourage you and Sorao to stay in touch with the ambassador, but not to speak to her freely, do you understand? John tells me she used a harmonic of hostile command on us, earlier, and the headmistress of Asazo's school told the police that Jharah and Bav felt Pesh was pressuring them to bond Asazo early."

 

Thas frowned, her face suddenly fierce. " _Pesh._ If I trusted her, I would have spoken in her office. I did not, you see? I speak to you privately instead. Even Sorao does not know, yes?"

 

"Do you suspect Sorao?"

 

"No!" Vibrant, sharp _honesty, belief, confidence_. "No, never. But she was much attached to Bav, _sss_ , in love with Bav. She cannot think today." Thas took a deep breath. "You promise me, both of you, you will try to find my zhei, keep her safe, return her to us."

 

"Yes," said John, instantly; Holmes nearly as quickly, their voices overlapping.

 

Thas nodded. "I decide to trust you and your Vulcan friend there, Sherlock and John, because Vulcans do not lie. The police, they will look at Bav's things, at Jharah's things. If there is a message, to say anything, to say who did this, it will be coded with our family cipher. I will send you the code-key, yes?" She tapped rapidly at the comm unit's input screen. "There." Their unit made an acknowledging little blip. "Now, listen. You have code-key? Look well. Now I must go. Be careful, and find who did this, yes?"

 

"Yes," said Holmes, and Thas disconnected. "She suspects the Ambassador as well," Holmes said.

 

"Yes. And -- either her subspace unit, or the one at the Embassy, had all the speech tones disabled earlier today, but they were present in this conversation," John said. "Peculiar." Holmes tilted his head back and looked up at him, with an encouraging smile. John wanted to touch his face, and instead he clasped his hands behind him. "I heard grief. Anger. Honesty. Duty. I would say she is entirely in earnest."

 

"Hm," said Holmes, and tapped at the comm's decryption unit. "Look well, she said." He ran one hand through his hair, so that it stood on end, and frowned, then pulled up the recording of their discussion with Thas and ran it through the decrypter. "What have we here?" He pulled up another video, this one of Sorao. The timestamp showed it had been recorded simultaneously with Thas's call. "They piggybacked this video on the call, and added an extra encryption layer," said Holmes, approvingly. "Shall we?"

 

Sorao's voice was very soft, and she looked determined, not distraught. "We received a call earlier today, from one we know. Asazo is in safe hands. They do not have a secure comm, and so would not say where she is, so we trust you to find her, yes? I have another key for you. You see how much we trust? Be well."

 

Holmes leaned back in his chair. John stepped back just in time to avoid contact. After a moment, Holmes said, "Vulcans marry very young, I've heard."

 

"Vulcan child-marriages are somewhat different than Andorian ones," John said. "A mind-link, only. There is no sexual act between the parties until adulthood. To do what someone wishes to do with Asazo is an obscenity." He moved to the kitchen, and began to make tea. "As we are speaking of mind-links, Holmes, we must discuss our inadvertent meld earlier."

 

"How is that relevant?" said Holmes, popping upright, and then he flushed, perhaps making the logical inference that such mental contact could have sexual implications. "Yes, well, relevant or not, I'm -- I didn't mean to hurt you, certainly. I had no idea -- I'm psi-null, or nearly, I couldn't even feel your mind until I was inside--"

 

" _I_ could have hurt _you_ ," John said. "When Vulcan died, my bondmate died. She was torn from my mind, and my bond-center was damaged. It is -- reaching. Trying to find a compatible mind." He handed Holmes a mug of tea, careful to avoid his fingers. "Yours is compatible."

 

"Compatible," Holmes said.

 

"I do not know what a bond from a damaged mind will do, to an unprepared human. I would prefer not to risk injuring you." Holmes nodded, and John said, "At this stage, if we refrain from touch, the connection will fade on its own, in a few days perhaps. If it establishes much more, I would need to have it broken by a healer. I do not wish to leave London, or Baker Street, or to harm you. This is why you must not touch me."

 

Holmes frowned, and looked at him for a long moment, searching his face. "And if I--" He broke off, looked down into his tea. "Well. Nevermind. At least we know Sarah was right about us -- we do suit, don't we?" He smiled, over the rim of his mug, and wandered off to tune his violin.

 

*

 

John could not achieve even the first stage of meditation. He felt worn out, by the chill in the air and by the assaults on his shields, by the two dead fathers and the day-long dread for what their missing child might be facing, ebbing now after Sorao's message, and his mind would not calm. He kept feeling Holmes's mind in his, the sensation of rooms sprawling around him. He moved to his bed, lay down on top of the coverlet, and stared at the ceiling, listening to Holmes's violin, letting it soothe him to sleep.

 

The dream began with the taste of saf, and faded to the taste of blood, copper-sharp and bright green.

 

_He melds with a child, and her skin crumbles beneath his hands, her brain throbs and pulps in his fingers, staining them. He leaves her, reaches for another child, and the child screams at his touch, screams and screams and will not stop. He runs, and finds a pair of eight-year-old bondmates with their hands entwined, and they touch his face, steady him, their intact bond a lifeline._

 

_They vanish, and he is alone again, and T'Mar is gone, gone, there is a hole in his mind; there is a child in his arms, an infant, and its mother lies weeping on the floor._

 

_There is a hollow, echoing horror where the world should be._

 

_He kneels, and places her child at her breast, and she screams, and screams, and screams, and she is inside his mind, and she is still screaming._

 

He woke, shaking, already standing, with the remembered taste of saf in his mouth, and his left hand aching. His knuckles bled, and he stared at them, and reached for the first-aid kit. The _ahn woon_ lay beside it, and he found his hand on it instead, his fingers tracing the leather. He tried to steady his breathing, failed. The plastisteel of the bedframe would hold, if he looped the _ahn woon_ around it. He had left genetic material on New Vulcan, so there would be no loss to his people in that regard. As a physician, as a surgeon, he was worth nothing any longer -- he could not so much as touch a patient --

 

Downstairs, Holmes was still playing the violin. John hid his hands in the sleeves of his robe, and went down. Holmes turned, flicked his eyes to the sofa, and shifted smoothly into another tune. After a moment, John recognized it as _Shen s'Nezhak_ , a composition for ka'athyra, and he walked to the sofa as if in a trance, the music holding him in its grip. He felt the soft fabric under his hand -- under his head -- and the room faded away. He slept.

 

*

 

John opened the door of 221B to leave for the tea shop. He was stiff from lying curled on the sofa, and it was just past dawn; the air was unpleasantly chilly and damp on his skin. He found two adolescent humans in school uniforms standing on the pavement, two bicycles in a tangle behind them. "Oh, it's the Vulcan," said one of them, who had short, spiky red hair and pale skin with freckles. "Is Sherlock home? Only he's not answering his comm."

 

"He is asleep in the sitting-room," John answered. Holmes had been sprawled in his favorite chair, with his violin on his knee, when John awoke.

 

"Oh," said the other one, who had darker skin and hair that curled and stood up in springs around their head. "Well, that's all right. We can just go in."

 

"Who are you?" John asked, holding the door closed behind him. 

"Ugh," said the red-headed one. " _You're_ hopeless at deductions. Why does he even _like_ you?"

 

"Who knows why the freak does anything," said the other one. "We're the Sallys. I'm Donovan and she's Wiggins. And you're John, Sherlock's -- _whatever_ you are. Sherlock _told_ us about _you_." Their emphasis was peculiar.

 

The red-headed one made funny noises with her mouth, _mwa-mwa-mwa_ , pressing her lips together. "Sherlock said to come by if we found anything, even if we had to break in."

 

John considered. Holmes had mentioned he wished to "find the Sallys" last night, and it seemed unlikely in the extreme that random individuals would both know this, and claim to be those persons. He opened the door, and let them in, following behind with some interest. They pounded up the stairs, thumping hard with their feet, Donovan shouting "Hey freak!" as they ran.

 

"You slept in the sitting room! John said, but I didn't think you actually did!" exclaimed Wiggins, as John joined them. Holmes put his violin away.

 

"It's not uncommon. Did you find out anything?"

 

"Yeah," said Donovan, "I found out it's weird, you hanging around twelve year old girls."

 

"I'm not hanging around you," Holmes said. "Twelve year olds are generally repulsive and most adults ignore them if possible. I'm using you to acquire information that adults will let slip around you while they're in the process of ignoring you."

 

"I'm not repulsive," Donovan said, offended. " _You're_ repulsive."

 

"Ugh," said Wiggins. "Get over it, Donovan, you _know_ who they're interested in. Sherlock, something's going on in the old dorm. It's palmlocked but usually you can get in by the old hoverlift entrance. Only the door's been magsealed in the past week."

 

"And one of the girls said she saw a ghost up at the window," said Donovan. "She's a fucking idiot, but you said _anything_ weird, and Asazo going missing, and a ghost, and the old dorm being locked? That's weird."

 

"The upper-school girls say the dorm's locked because Brooke and Terek had sex in there last week -- "

 

"Gross," put in Donovan. "Brooke says she wouldn't touch Terek's dick without a set of waders, and _I_ believe her."

 

"And besides, last year the Marys exploded the tack room but no one locked the stables up afterwards, why would anyone care about a sex rumour?" Wiggins crossed her arms and nodded, as if that settled the matter.

 

"The _Marys,_ " Donovan sighed, rapturously.

 

"Ugh," said Wiggins, tugging her out of the door, "come on, message delivered, we have to go, I'm not going to miss chem lab because you're mooning over the Marys."

 

"Have you seen their _thighs_ , though?" Donovan's voice faded as she thumped down the stairs after her friend.

 

Holmes waited, his finger to his lips, until the door slammed shut behind them, and then burst into giggles. He collapsed on the sofa, giggling into his hand, and it took him nearly a minute to calm himself. "What a delight those two are," he said. "If there's a better pick-me-up on this planet than a pair of fierce twelve-year-olds, I've never encountered it."

 

John raised his eyebrows. "And you're a grown man, 'hanging around' children, as they pointed out."

 

"I'm using them as informants, John, not abusing them. I'm like -- an academic decathalon coach, only for observation and deduction. And chemistry, in the case of Wiggins, she's an absolute whiz -- that's how I know them, she did a research project at the FedMed lab." He disappeared into his bedroom.

 

"What's 'academic decathalon'?"

 

"A noble sport! I was a champion in my youth!" He came out, hopping on one leg as he pulled his trousers up, and ran his hands through his hair. "There. Fresh as a daisy. Are you coming with me?"

 

"Where?"

 

"To the London Science Academy, of course." 


	4. It would be illogical to assume that all conditions remain stable.

In the cab, John said, "I had never heard  _Shen s'Nezhak_ on anything but Vulcan lute, until last night."

 

Holmes blushed. "Is that its name? I heard it performed, once; I have a good memory for music. I thought -- well. I thought, last night, that you could use something of home.

 

John raised an eyebrow. "Your memory is remarkable."

 

Holmes was silent a moment, and then asked, softly, "Can you tell me about it?"

 

John steepled his hands in front of him. "You could hardly have chosen anything more appropriate. The title translates as _The Ascent From Chaos_. It is a meditation piece based on a quotation from T'Plana-Hath: 'Logic is the cement of our civilization, with which we ascend from chaos, using reason as our guide.' I...it is not often recorded; it is a piece of music intended to be played by the one meditating. I had not thought to hear it again, in my lifetime."

 

Holmes reached out, as if to touch John's wrist, but stopped short, letting his hand hover in the air. His comm chirped, and he drew back and frowned down at it. "Are you up for a visit to the morgue, instead?"

 

"Why?"

 

"I asked Molly to re-examine the bodies, in light of what Thas said last night about coded messages. She's found something." He turned his comm so that John could see the screen. It contained a bewildering array of tiny images.

 

"What does that mean?" He tried to decipher it: a cup of colored liquid with steam coming out of it, a _Tyrannosaurus rex_ , a _Gallus gallus_ , a shrugging human figure, a--Holmes turned it around again before he could finish.

 

"The simplest, and most unbreakable, codes remain slang," Holmes said. "Humans send each other messages like this all the time, but they're almost impenetrable to non-humans." He winked. "Don't send people eggplants, by the way, John."

 

"Why would I send anyone an eggplant?" John asked. "If I needed you to purchase one, I would simply ask. I would not send you a picture; you know what eggplants look like."

"I take it back," Holmes said. "You should _absolutely_ send me eggplants."

 

*

 

The morgue was uncomfortably cold, and John tucked his hands into the sleeves of his robe. Dr. Hooper led them, not to one of the bodies, but to her terminal. "Okay," she said. "Um. So I got your message, and I thought, if I was a genetics researcher, and I needed to leave a covert message in case I was murdered, um, what would I do?" She touched the screen. "So. Here. See? It's a, a virus, really, a little packet of genetic material. It's artificial and it's signed, but I can't -- the signature's in some kind of code? I don't know what it means."

 

"Brilliant," Holmes said. "Molly, you're amazing." He kissed her cheek, and John suppressed the urge to pull him back. It was the half-formed bond, he suspected, warping his perceptions of innocent actions. His logic was suspect at best, today.

 

"Is this a secure terminal?" Holmes asked, and when Molly nodded, he opened the transfer port on the terminal and attached his comm. "If we've been very good children, Molly, it's encrypted with the family cipher of the victims." He bent over the terminal, and after a few moments, he smiled. "And here we are. _Oh_."

 

"Oh?" said Dr. Hooper.

 

John leaned over Holmes's shoulder to read. "This is -- a record of Bav's suspicions, and also contains a code-phrase to tell Asazo's guardians to release her. But it does not tell us where she is."

 

"She's safe," Holmes said, "so we should let her be, for now, and concentrate on proving Pesh's involvement."

 

"If you find her now, the ambassador will claim temporary custody," Dr. Hooper said, "won't she?"

 

"Almost certainly," said Holmes.

 

"It does not even indicate who her guardians might be," John said, frustrated. "Her fathers were murdered; they may not be safe. Should we not find them, and alert them?"

 

"That information is probably under the second-layer cipher," Holmes said. "And they'll be safe as long as they keep her out of sight. Don't fret, John -- I am almost certain I know where she is, and if I'm right she's safe as houses." He frowned. "Molly. I'll give you the code-keys -- John already has them -- but let's keep that information locked up tight, until we can prove our suspicions, or until Asazo's surviving parents arrive to take custody."

 

"Three may keep a secret, if two of them are dead," Dr. Hooper said, darkly, and Holmes laughed.

 

"If two of us end up dead, Pesh will have a great many things to worry about. My brother is not a spider in his web for nothing."

 

"I understood you were psi-null," John said.

 

"What?" Holmes and Dr. Hooper both stared at him.

 

John blinked. "If you are psi-null, how is it that you know the shape of your brother's mind?"

 

"How do _you_ know what my brother's mind is like?" Holmes replied, his brow creased.

 

"He touched me yesterday." Of course, Holmes himself had been on the floor at the time, recovering from the shock of the inadvertent partial meld.

 

" _Did_ he." Holmes appeared irritated, for no reason John could discern.

 

"His mind is remarkably clear and organized," he offered, thinking that perhaps Holmes had been offended some cultural implication of spiderwebs of which he was unaware.

 

" _Is_ it."

 

"Okay," said Dr. Hooper, "only, if you're going to fight about this, can you maybe, not here?"

 

Holmes narrowed his eyes and swept out of the room, and John frowned. Humans were perplexing; Holmes was not given to bouts of illogic, which made this behavior more confusing. "Thank you for your assistance, Dr. Hooper," he said, and jogged after his flatmate.

 

*

 

Holmes waited for him outside, his fit of pique apparently over. "John, please go to the police station -- find Gregson or Lestrade. Tell them what we found, have them organize all the evidence they have, and wait for me. I have to go see Mycroft, and it's best if I go alone."

 

"Why is that?" asked John, and Holmes made an expressive face.

 

"Diplomatic immunity is troublesome, sometimes. Mycroft's people are going to have to actually deal with this, and you don't have the clearance to be in on those discussions."

 

"How does Mycroft know what has happened?"

 

Holmes grinned. "Sorao and Thas aren't the only ones with a family cipher, John." He winked, and ducked into a cab.

 

The station was less than a kilometer distant, so John opted to walk. Once there, he found himself in Lestrade's office, as Gregson was unavailable. Lestrade muttered at zir terminal angrily; apparently the police information infrastructure left something to be desired. John's comm chirped, and he opened the message from Holmes only to be left entirely baffled by a string of tiny pictures. "Lestrade, what does a picture-message that is a tongue, an eggplant, and some water droplets mean?"

  
"Who's sending you that?"

 

"Holmes."

 

"Huh. Well. If it was anyone other than Sherlock, I'd say they were propositioning you."

 

"For sex?"

 

"Yep." Lestrade waggled zir eyebrows up and down.

 

John studied the message. "Earlier, he suggested I send him eggplants. Are eggplants intended to be tumescent human penises?"

 

Lestrade covered zir face with zir hand and nodded. Ze seemed to be trying to suppress laughter.

 

"Eggplants do not resemble Vulcan genitalia in the slightest," John said, and searched the selection of little pictures on his comm. He decided the head of broccoli was the most visually similar, and sent it to Holmes, along with the representation of the _ta'al_ he found.

 

Lestrade, looking over his shoulder, made a strange noise. "Did you just...proposition them back?"

 

"No. However, I spent several years among human medical students. There is no sex act that I have not been propositioned for, and few I did not inadvertently witness. If Holmes wishes to discomfit me, he will have to be more creative."

 

"Do you know you're calling them 'he'?" Lestrade asked.

 

"He is a he," John answered, looking down at his comm. Holmes had replied with an exclamation point.

 

"Huh. They've never told anyone their gender that I know of."

 

"I learned it in a meld," John said, and sent Holmes a pine tree, a sliced cucumber, and a cactus, followed by a question mark. This communication method was highly illogical, but it was somehow pleasing to imagine Holmes's face upon receiving the pictures.

 

"What the _actual hell_?" said Lestrade.

 

*

 

It was nearly an hour before Gregson returned, muttering imprecations; another hour after that before Holmes arrived, an expression of satisfaction on his face. "Mycroft's analysts have put together the necessary evidence," he said, handing padds to all three of them. "His team will have to handle the ambassador and the involved embassy staff, but there are other tasks."

 

John reviewed the evidence -- as Holmes had suspected, the ambassador had planned to marry Asazo to her chan child, and the thaan and shen children of two of her associates. The additional two children, and a somewhat excessive supply of saf, had been transported to Earth only three weeks ago. "Jharah and Bav discovered this," he said, "and determined that an attempt would be made against Asazo?"

 

"That is Mycroft's belief, and mine," said Holmes.

 

"Logical," John said.

 

Lestrade and zir team took on the task of sweeping up the parents of the other two children, while Gregson's team was to retrieve Asazo. "I decoded the rest of the message at Mycroft's office," Holmes said. "She _is_ at her school -- undoubtedly she's the 'ghost' the Sallys reported. Come along, John, Gregson."

 

*

 

The London Science Academy was possessed of the cool, green lawns that humans adored, and which reminded John uncomfortably of pools of blood. Gregson spent the ride over complaining that the headmistress had concealed Asazo from his investigation.

 

"I don't like that she _lied,_ if the kid is there," he said, and Holmes waved this away.

 

"She had good reason, don't you think? You _would_ have taken Asazo, and you would have had to place her in the custody of the ambassador, or risk a diplomatic incident, would you not?"

 

"She reported what she knew of Jharah and Bav's suspicions," John put in, "but it would not have been enough to keep the child in protective custody. It is logical to weight honesty against justice."

 

Gregson grumbled at that, but subsided: the truth was what it was, and he could not deny it. They waited around the corner, until Mycroft notified Holmes that Pesh and her staff had been successfully apprehended, and then Gregson commed the headmistress.

 

Effie Hebron and her husband Grant Munro met them in front of the administration building. "Ms. Hebron," Gregson said, "Mr. Munro. We have information stating that the minor child Siahasazo zh'Shythen is on this campus and that you have been protecting her."

 

"I don't know what you mean," said Ms. Hebron.

 

Holmes smiled. "Will this make a difference?" He held out his hand comm. Ms. Hebron took it, and passed it to her husband, who examined whatever was on the screen minutely. After a few moments, he nodded, and Ms. Hebron took a deep breath.

 

"Come this way," she said, and let them across the blood-green fields. John spotted the Sallys lounging under a tree; Wiggins had a paper sketchpad across her knees, and Donovan was flat on her back, tossing a rugby ball up into the air and catching it over and over. He could almost feel the satisfying smack of the ball against her palms, feel the thump of bodies on the grass, _blood, the corridor was smeared green with blood, and he tripped over the body of a child, and somewhere Shelev was calling his name--_

 

"John?" Holmes drew his attention, his brow furrowed in concern. "Is something wrong?"

 

"No," said John, and nodded towards the Sallys. "Merely remembering my rugby days."

 

"You played rugby?" said Holmes, clearly delighted. "You. Played rugby. _Please_ tell me Sarah has pictures."

 

John thought of Stamford laughing as she took a picture of Michael, standing barefoot on John's shoulders after a game, both of them smeared with mud and grass-stains, John's hands wrapped around Michael's legs to steady him. John was not about to tell Holmes about that, and he raised an eyebrow rather than answer.

 

The Sallys spotted them, and Donovan jumped to her feet. "JOHN AND SHERLOCK, SITTING IN A TREE" she yelled across the field. Wiggins smacked her in the shins and Donovan tumbled back to the ground, laughing. John looked at Holmes to see if he had any idea what that interlude meant; Holmes blushed and looked away.

 

The old dorm was tucked at the back of the campus, and appeared to be in good shape. "Decommissioned for not meeting accessibility requirements?" Holmes asked, and Ms. Hebron nodded.

  
"It's scheduled for reclamation next year, and then we'll build a new dorm here and be able to accept more residential students," she said, pressing her palm to the door lock. Holmes stepped back, looking up at the third storey, and gestured for John and Gregson to join him.

 

A small, pale-gray face looked down at them from the window. "That is not a member of any species I know," said John.

 

"Holo-mask," Holmes murmured, "almost certainly."

 

They all filed inside, and two older children, perhaps sixteen or so, stood up from stairs. They were both muscular and short-haired, and wearing tight vests with their uniform skirts rolled up at the waist to show their legs to mid-thigh. Ms. Hebron sighed and rubbed her eyes. "Miss Morstan. Miss Smith. I should have known you two would be here, somehow."

 

Holmes narrowed his eyes, and then laughed. "The Marys, I presume?"

 

Both children flashed their teeth at him. "We weren't going to leave her _alone_ ," said one of them.

 

"She's just a _kid_ ," said the other one.

 

"How did you even get in?" asked Mr. Munro, shaking his head, but they were interrupted by the thud of feet on the stairs, and an Andorian child -- undoubtedly Asazo -- appeared, the holo-mask Holmes had predicted clutched in one hand, and flung her arms around Ms. Hebron. Her antennae were quivering.

 

Gregson cleared his throat. "Siahasazo zh'Shythen?"

 

Ms. Hebron petted Asazo's hair, and tilted her chin up. Asazo sighed, and said "Yes."

 

"I'm Detective Inspector Gregson, of the Metropolitan Police," Gregson said. "Your mothers told us how to find you. You're safe, now, but I'm sorry. Your fathers are--"

 

"Dead," said Asazo. "I know. I-- I felt them." She shuddered, then, and kept shuddering, pressing her body to Ms. Hebron's.

 

John recognized the aftereffects of mild psychic shock: Asazo was likely a fairly strong telepath, for her species, and she had been physically close enough to feel her fathers die, close enough to feel the familial bonds severed by violence. Andorian telepathic bonds were weak, compared to Vulcan bonds, but the pain of a sudden severing was not one anyone should deal with alone. He knelt, an arm's length away, and held out his hand. "Asazo," he said, "I am a doctor. May I touch your mind?"

 

"You're Vulcan," she said, pointing her antennae at him, wary but curious. At his nod, she stepped closer to him, clinging to Ms. Hebron's hand as she did so.

 

John could likely avoid Ms. Hebron's mind, at this remove. He brushed his fingers over the pulse-point in Asazo's wrist, seeking a light connection. It was nothing like the accidental melds with Holmes, nothing like the frantic reaching of his bond-center towards a compatible self. He could feel the psychic trauma of her fathers' deaths; the grief of losing them; the fear of forced marriage; he could feel his clinical analysis of her needs.

 

"My mind to your mind," he said, touching her face, "My thoughts to your thoughts. You are Asazo, I am Serlok, you are Azaso--"

 

She joined in the chant, and their voices blended as the meld took. "I am Asazo. I am Serlok. I am Asazo. I am Serlok." He pressed his own trauma carefully to the back of his mind, sought and found the injury in Asazo's. Telepathic surgery was not his specialty, but he knew enough to ease the pain of this, to leave her alone in her mind but not torn apart with loneliness.

 

No one, not even skilled healers, had been able to do this for him, but he could do it for her.

 

He withdrew from the meld carefully, chanting with her until they were separate once again, and dropped his hand to his side. Asazo raised her antennae, and smiled. "Oh," she said, "oh, my head doesn't hurt anymore."

 

John rose to his feet, trying to ignore the aching, echoing void inside his own head.

 

Gregson took over the logistics of interviewing Asazo, Mr. Munro, and Ms. Hebron. The Marys, who seemed unwilling to terminate their unofficial role as bodyguards, quizzed Holmes. _Didn't_ he understand that they wouldn't tolerate having Asazo removed from school? _Mustn't_ he let them speak to her mothers? _Oughtn't_ he come to some sporting event, and watch them play? _Wouldn't_ his cute Vulcan friend like to see Morstan's back tattoo? _Shouldn't_ someone go kick the ambassador's teeth in, and _couldn't_ it be them?

 

Human children were appallingly violent, at times.

 

John steepled his fingers in front of him and tried to raise his shields, to control the desperate seeking of his mind. He did not know how long he stood thus, but eventually he heard Holmes's voice. "Come at once, John -- John, come along, we are going home."


	5. Change is the essential process of all existence.

They returned to Baker Street in silence. Holmes watched him, the entire way, with a peculiar expression on his face, one John was unable to read. He was too exhausted to try, and his head hurt, and he felt choked with loneliness.

 

Inside, he hung up his robe on the hook by the door, and Holmes hung his coat next to it, but held onto the folds, his head bowed. After a moment, he said, in a tone of disbelief, " _Serlok_?"

 

John had hoped Holmes would simply let him go upstairs to his room, but clearly that was not to be. "One must use one's personal name in a meld of that type," he said. "The -- vulnerability of the mind, in such a thing, requires a giving of the self."

 

"Your name is _Serlok_."

 

"I prefer a use-name based on my stem-clan name," John said. "And you must admit, using my personal name while sharing a flat with you would be confusing at best."

 

Holmes stared at him for a moment, and then laughed. "I suppose it would," he said, and let go of his coat.

 

John turned to go up to his room, but he was more exhausted than he had thought, and he stumbled. Holmes caught him, his hand brushing the skin of John's wrist. Their minds slid together, and then just as rapidly apart, as Holmes shoved him away. "No," he said, naked horror in his voice. "No!" He pushed past John and took the stairs to John's bedroom two at a time. John followed him, and found Holmes pulling the _ahn woon_ from its place on the shelf. "Like _hell_ are you killing yourself," Holmes said, fiercely, and he tied the _ahn woon_ around his waist like a belt. "You'll have to touch me to get it away from me," he said, and braced, clearly expecting a fight.

 

Instead, John let his legs fold under him. He hadn't known -- he hadn't seen, in himself, the immediate desire for death, for the quiet of ending things. To be ignorant of such an impulse was dangerous, for he could not avert an unconscious desire with logic. Yet Holmes had seen it, from the briefest touch of their minds, and he had not been wrong. "Go," he said; he did not know what else to say. "Take it with you, and go." Perhaps if he slept, here and now, he would wish to live when he woke again.

 

He remembered soothing the pain in Asazo's mind, but there was no cure for the insistent pain in his own, as strong now as it had been the day his people and his bondmate had been torn from him. No cure but to bond again, and he had been foolish to leave New Vulcan. His logic had seemed certain at the time, but he had not seen his own failure--

 

"John," Holmes said, kneeling by his side. "John. Let me help."

 

John closed his eyes; it was increasingly difficult to speak, but he must. He must make Holmes understand. "Holmes. _Sherlock._ This is not safe for you. My mind--my shields--"

 

"You won't harm me," said Holmes. "You've touched my mind before. We're compatible -- you said it yourself. Let me help." His hand brushed John's, a lightning-quick sensation of _affection, worry_.

 

John bit his tongue. He wanted that sensation back, wanted Holmes's mind in his, wanted to entwine their fingers and press their mouths and their thoughts together and _feel_.

 

Perhaps the pain would stop, for the first time since the world-death.

 

" _Sherlock_ ," he said, and he did not know if he was trying to refuse help, or begging for it.

 

"I'm here," Holmes said. "It's all right. Let me help. If we bond, we bond. It is what it is, and we'll deal with it." John heard him take a quick breath, and then Holmes's hand was on his, his grip firm and sure. Their minds slipped together. John could hear him speaking, but he could not understand the words.

 

Holmes's pulse beat under his fingers, a low throb, calming, slow, slow, slow.

 

He was in the vast, ornamented rooms of Holmes's mind, and Holmes's hands held him close. "I'm here," Holmes said, and his voice was a rumble like thunder, coming from everywhere, echoing. John wove their fingers together, and held on.

 

*

 

He woke in the gray light of a rainy morning. Holmes -- Sherlock -- was curled next to him on his narrow bed, and he had no idea how they had arrived there, from their place on the floor. He assumed Sherlock had managed to move them at some point. Their fingers were still tangled together, but although John could sense Sherlock's mind, he was no longer submerged in it. It was another place, one with a smooth and well-kept path to its door, and he carefully disengaged his hand and let it fall to the bed between them. Sherlock stirred, then, and blinked at him. The rain drummed on the roof.

 

"Hello," Sherlock said, his voice rough. He seemed undamaged, his gray eyes clear, and his sense of himself sure and intact along the bond between them.

 

John reached out, slowly, and smoothed Sherlock's hair back from his face, tucking it behind his ear. His shields did not waver. They had not felt so solid since the world-death, and yet Sherlock was _there_ , as surely as if they were melded still.

 

He rested his hand against Sherlock's cheek. "On Vulcan, we would now be married."

 

Sherlock laughed, and pressed into his touch. "All right."

 

"I understood that humans did not form lifelong relationships so quickly. We have not yet known each other three months."

 

"I'm not most humans," Sherlock said, and kissed him.

 

*

The End

 


End file.
